


Stage Fright

by Uakari



Category: No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uakari/pseuds/Uakari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sion lacks appreciation for the finer points of playing dress-up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stage Fright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irene Gerke](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Irene+Gerke), [Eijentu](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Eijentu).



> I wanted to write something goofy and schmoopy which, uh…is hard for such an angsty canon. This is, therefore, set years into the future, after their promised reunion and assumes that they’ve both settled into a comfortable life together.
> 
> For my dearest darlings Irene Gerke and Eijentu, who goaded and harassed me every night until this was written. You're lucky I love you. :P

Despite the familiarly that two years cohabitation has granted, there are a fair number of things about living with Nezumi that Sion is quite certain will never feel routine, or normal, or at the very least cease to surprise the hell out of him. First and foremost on this list is Nezumi’s compulsion to boil every last drop of water that reaches his lips (a habit he’s apparently picked up after a particularly nasty brush with microbes on his travels and is now swearing up and down is a taste preference); only slightly further down is the alarming number of mornings that he’s stumbled half-asleep into the bathroom to find a complete stranger staring back at him. This morning it’s a woman balking back at him over the top of a side-lit vanity mirror, mascara tube in one hand and head tilted back at an awkward angle to apply it. “How scandalous,” she purrs, “Entering a lady’s dressing room without knocking first.”

The “lady” is a far cry less upsetting than the “donkey” he’d walked in on a few weeks earlier (there aren’t words to describe how unaccountably disturbing half-stuck false facial hair looks to the sleep-drenched eye – especially when coupled with that well-practiced sneer and expertly trained braying…), though “she’s” still enough of a surprise that Sion starts and has to shake his head a few times to ward off any lingering suspicion that he’s still dreaming. “The lady really ought to put up some signage, in that case,” he yawns and rubs his eyes, “It’s 5 in the morning, Nezumi – what are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Nezumi shrugs and contorts his face into the ghastly “O” that always accompanies the mascara brush, “What are _you_ doing up? Didn’t you only go to bed a few hours ago?”

“Meeting,” Sion says simply and rakes a hand through his bedraggled hair, “Can’t keep the- _Hey._ I thought you were playing Bottom now. With all the,” he flaps a hands at his ear and mimes scraggly facial hair with the other, “And the-”

“BRAAAAAAHEHEHEHAAAW?”

“Yes, _that,_ ” Sion shudders at the braying. Too early. _Far too early._ “It’s not over, is it?” he chokes, suddenly realizing that it’s been a good couple of months since Nezumi landed the role and he _still_ hasn’t made a single showing, even though he’s promised on numerous occasions and he’s acutely aware that this makes him a terrible boyfriend…partner… _whatever_ and that he really _ought_ to be making more of an effort, but everything has just been so damned _busy_ lately that he-

“ _Sion,_ ” Nezumi is fixing him with a look that is half-amused, half-annoyed, and all attitude. (It is, in fact, a stark reminder of the fact that Nezumi is, and always will be, far more intimidating in lipstick.) “You’re doing that… _thing_ again. With the eye-crossing and the head-shaking. Creeps me out.”

“Sorry-”

“Anyway,” Nezumi continues, “I’m just getting ready for the next round of auditions. Toyama’s trying to dredge up a band of merry players to tame a certain shrew, and I happen to think I’d make a stunning Katherine. So, fear not, as you’ve still got a three week window to see me captivating a breathless audience while prancing around with an ass’s head. Unless you want a private performance…?”

“No, that’s alright-”

“Come, tears, confound! Out, sword and wound the pap of Pyramus!” Nezumi swipes a long-handled powder brush from the counter in front of him, “Aye, that left pap where heart doth hop!” and proceeds to stab himself quite spectacularly over the heart, smashing the bristles willy-nilly against his chest and teetering backward on his stool.

Sion stares in dismay as Nezumi plummets over the edge to land on the floor with a dramatic yelp. “Did you want a han-”

“Thus die I, thus, thus, thus,” Nezumi sprawls across the tiles in a way that implied he has far more energy than the average dead man and continues to writhe there as he shouts dramatically at the ceiling, “Now I am dead, now I am fled. My soul is in the sky: tongue, lose thy light! Moon take thy flight.” He freezes there instantly, a choked cough issuing from his lips followed by a low rattle.

“That’s really impress-”

“Now die, _die, DIE_ -”

“Nezumi-”

 _”DIE!”_ And with a swift kick to his ankles, Sion suddenly finds himself on the floor as well, straddling the most active dead man he has ever seen. Nezumi cracks open an eyelid, “You have no appreciation of art.”

Sion can only laugh at this, even though his knees are stinging from the impact and he’s fairly certain his palm is bruised against the tiles. “It was wonderful,” he chuckles and swipes at a trail of black on Nezumi’s cheek where the mascara has smeared, “Very _dramatic._ ”

“Tche,” Nezumi huffs and cranes his face to the side, “You have no appreciation of _my_ art.”

“How you can you even say that?” Sion continues to chuckle and completely fails to notice that his wrists are silently being enveloped and a knee maneuvering into position against his hip, “When I let you turn the bathroom into a private dressing room and-”

“Because you completely lack the vocabulary to make a convincing argument otherwise,” Sion is suddenly much more aware of the grip around his wrists as he’s wrestled backward, their positions almost casually flipped, and pinned against the same tiles he’d caught himself against only moments before, “ _Dramatic?_ Is this really the best you can come up with?” Nezumi shakes his head in mock reproach and quirks an eyebrow.

“Well, I don’t really know-”

“And that,” Nezumi grins ferally, “Is just the beginning of your problems.” He bites his lip a second later, eyes darting around the small room, searching for- “We’ll have to start with wardrobe.”

“Wardrobe?” Sion manages to half-sit as Nezumi stretches above him, reaching for the high door on the linen cabinet, “Nezumi, I have to get dressed for work.”

“Oh, you’ll be dressed,” Nezumi assures him and smacks the flimsy, wooden door open against the wall. His face contorts a bit, dragging his perfectly stained lips into an awkward peak next to his nose as he fumbles blindly through the cabinet, pulling and tugging and petting the various towels and-

“ _No,_ ” Sion says quickly as Nezumi drags a powder blue, frilly… _thing_ from its depths and dangles it just over Sion’s face, “Where did that even _come_ from?”

“I borrowed it,” Nezumi says, very sincerely, and Sion knows in that instant that he’s stolen it from the theater’s locker, probably against his manager’s wishes.

He wriggles against the tiles, yanking ineffectually at his wrists in Nezumi’s grasp, “There isn’t time for this… _why are you keeping it in the linen cabinet, anyway?_ ”

“What?” Nezumi feigns indignity, “I was going to steam it. Let loose the wrinkles,” he wrinkles his own nose as he looks at the sorry, matted state of the thing, “Some of the wear…” His gaze wanders back to Sion, who is now blushing bright red and really throwing himself into his struggle for freedom (to no effect whatsoever – age may have brought him a bit more in mass, but days spent largely behind a desk have left him staggeringly behind Nezumi in both strength and endurance). “I have to wonder if it’s going to fit, though…you’re getting kind of a paunch.” He pokes a finger into Sion’s belly (which isn’t actually paunchy – not by any reasonable measure, anyway – but _is_ overly sensitive and provokes the desired squeal, anyway). “See?”

“It’s not a paunch, it’s a- _What are you-?_ ” Any further questions, comments or complaints Sion has are lost as another wicked finger is jabbed into his side and he’s reduced to a shrieking, giggling mess. It’s easy enough for Nezumi to strip his t-shirt this way; slightly harder for him to work Sion’s flailing arms beneath the lacy straps, but he manages after a short struggle and leans back to admire his handy work.

“Ahh, stage clothes,” Nezumi gloats, leaning back to admire his handiwork, “Easy on, easy off.”

The ruffled skirt is bunched beneath Sion’s armpits and behind his head (the netting is rough and _itches_ against his skin), but more importantly, its sheer mass is preventing him from flailing around too much more. He scowls back at Nezumi, “Is this really necessary?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Nezumi smirks back at him. “Now,” he wrenches Sion’s arms upward and pulls him to his feet, “It needs lacing,” he turns Sion to face away from him, “Lean against the wall.”

Sion folds his arms against the cold tile and buries his face within his elbows. The warmth there is a nice contrast to the chill radiating off the tiles, but the further he burrows against them, the colder the chill becomes and the more the flush of his cheeks burns against his skin. “I thought you said ‘easy on, easy off?’”

“This _is_ easy,” Nezumi laughs and Sion suddenly feels a pinch around his waist, “Huge eyelets and relatively wide spacing between them,” he tugs the ends of the laces and pulls the bodice tighter still, “God forbid I tried to get you into an actual corset – you’d cry and I’d have to feel conflicted.”

“Instead of vindictive?” Sion flinches as Nezumi gives the cord a good _yank_ and his abdomen is fully cinched into the bodice.

“ _Vindictive_?” Nezumi laughs and pulls the cord tighter once again – he’s reached the tips of Sion’s shoulder blades now and the tug is enough to pull his shoulders back and out of the slouch he’s fallen into. “How is this vindictive?” he snakes a hand around Sion’s side and pats at his belly. It’s feels… _odd_. Even though the material is pulled tight against his skin, the thumping feels dull, hollow as Nezumi’s fingers collide with a much taughter surface than Sion is used too. All of the sting is gone, replaced with toothless reverb across the whole of his abdomen which is…strangely pleasant. Nezumi leans his face in close, hot breath tickling across Sion’s ear, “No, I think you just don’t have enough appreciation for the finer points of playing dress-up.”

“I thought it was appreciation of your art that I was lacking?”

“Well, that too,” Nezumi concedes and gives the lacing a good, final tug, “But I’ll settle for baby steps.” He pauses for a long moment, fingers running along the laces and tracing up his spine, and Sion can practically _see_ him checking and rechecking his handiwork even though his face is still securely nestled against his arms. “Too tight?”

Sion takes a deep breath – well, he _tries_ to take a deep breath, but the bodice catches and squeezes all of the places he’d really like to expand, wrapping tight around his middle and holding him in a tight embrace, and forces him to breath _upward_ , to expand his chest and force air up toward his shoulders where he’s not used to feeling his breath. It’s irksome to be so completely unable to drive air down to the corners of his lungs where he’d like to feel it rushing, but it’s heady and intoxicating and _satisfying_ at the same time and, for a split second, he wonders whether Nezumi doesn’t have something else in mind altogether this morning. “S’fine,” he mumbles and straightens himself from the wall.

Nezumi is already gripping at his arms to turn him back around and gives him a long, appraising look before snorting and snickering out the corner of his mouth. “You really don’t have the tits to fill it out properly.”

 _And here you were complaining about my paunch,_ is the first thing to run through Sion’s mind, but Nezumi is already maneuvering his back against the wall before he has time to put voice to it. He catches Sion’s face in a one handed grip, squeezing his cheeks and forcing his lips out into an exaggerated pout (that probably looks more like something you’d find on a fish, but he’s beyond worrying about how ridiculous he looks at the moment). “You’re definitely a winter.”

“A what?” Sion manages through his pursed lips.

“Makeup~” Nezumi trills and lets go of Sion’s face, only to push down harshly on his shoulder, “Sit down.”

“ _Nezumi,_ ” Sion pleads again, “I have _work_ and I can't look like I've been to one of your all-night cast parties. Can't this wait till after I get home?”

Nezumi only renews the force against his shoulder, pushing him down to sit against the wall, “The key to proper makeup application,” he says very seriously, “Is to look like you’re not wearing any at all.”

Sion stares back, dumbfounded. Nezumi certainly doesn’t look like he’s not wearing any makeup – in fact, Sion can’t remember the last time he saw Nezumi made up to look anything like natural (or at least not made up to be completely unrecognizable or covered in fur). He swallows this down, though, and sighs as his head collides with the tile behind him. “Just don’t go overboard, _please_.”

“Of course not, your majesty,” Nezumi assures him with a bow of his head. Seemingly satisfied with Sion’s newfound compliance, Nezumi releases the death grip he’s been holding tight against Sion’s shoulder and settles himself onto the floor. He slides forward into Sion’s lap, robe slouching down off of one shoulder and gaping open to the belt as he does, and presses his knees into and across Sion’s inner thighs instead – a not-so-subtle reminder that he’s in charge – and twists around back toward the vanity to steal away his bag of powders and rouges and other assorted tubes of guck. He drops these in the small space between them and rifles through the contents, plucking out several compacts and a pencil with a well-dulled tip. “Eyes closed,” he directs and Sion complies without too much of a fuss.

Nezumi starts with his eyelids, dragging something cold and soft and slippery across their surfaces. His touch is light, but still _tickles_ as he wafts across the contours of his eyes, and it’s all Sion can to do keep his lids from fluttering helplessly open at each and every brush across them. The pencil is next, its movements far more precise and solid, but no less ticklish as it presses a line across his lashbed. Nezumi’s fingers flit and dip against Sion’s cheeks as he works, apparently unable to find a hold secure enough or satisfying enough to finish the job. The overall effect is gentle and soothing and probably not at all what Nezumi is intending, but Sion is content enough to keep that quiet as finger pads press against his chin, the tip of his nose, and into his cheeks. His nerve endings spark and flare with each brush against them; he can’t remember the last time he’s had this much attention paid to his face…

Then everything is _gone_ – no brushes, no fingers – and Sion cracks open an eyelid to see what’s gone awry. Nezumi is busily dabbing a brush into an obnoxiously pink shade of rouge and doesn’t pay him the slightest attention.

“You forgot the dots,” Sion prods.

Nezumi stops swirling the brush long enough to cast him a confused look. “Dots?”

“Yeah,” Sion continues, “You always do dots here,” he points at the corners of his eyes, “With red or white or something.”

“That’s _stage makeup_ ,” Nezumi smirks back at him, “Makes your eyes look bigger from a distance. The only stage you’re going to be performing on, your majesty, is mine, and I’m not planning on getting that far away.”

“Performing?” Sion quirks an eyebrow as the brush sweeps across his cheeks, “I think that’s a little out of my area of expertise.”

“Mmm,” Nezumi agrees and returns to shuffling through the bag, “That’s putting things mildly. Still,” he retrieves and twists open a tube of bright red lipstick, “If you don’t ever practice, you can’t ever improve.” He waves the tube in front of Sion’s lip, “Pucker up.”

Sion reverts to the duck pout – unaided this time, but probably no less ridiculous looking – and Nezumi dutifully dabs the stick in careful lines across his lips. Sion watches his eyes as he applies the goop. They’re intent, earnest, but also sparkling with humor. He’s _enjoying_ this quite a lot, Sion realizes and fights back his own grin. He’s pretty much given up any hopes of resuming his normal morning (he can probably skip breakfast and still make it to his meeting on time, or, barring that, pray that the trolley breaks down and he can blame less-than-optimal public transportation), and is intrigued (in a terrified sort of way) as to just _what_ Nezumi has in mind here. It’s been awhile since one of his more… _creative_ moods has struck and even longer still since the aggressive teasing streak has emerged like this. Mostly, though, he likes seeing Nezumi happy and is feeling particularly indulgent this morning.

Sion smacks his lips together as Nezumi pulls the tube back and twists it back to closed. “Am I beautiful now?”

“You tell me,” Nezumi smirks and reaches back for a hand mirror, which he thrusts in front of Sion’s face.

Sion balks. “I look like my mother.”

“Yes, well, genetics tends to do that,” Nezumi says simply and begins packing his tools back into his bag, “Could be worse. If you looked like Rikiga or something, I would have to call the rest of this off.” He tosses the bag back up on the vanity and turns back to Sion with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

“The rest-”

“Curtains up, your majesty.” And without another word, Sion finds the massive, frilly skirt tossed up and over his face.

“What are you-” Sion squawks and fights to shove the immense pile of fluff back to a reasonable position (the most reasonable being stuffed awkwardly beneath his armpits and bunched around his waist, of course). Nezumi is tugging at his pants, and even though they’re only loose flannel and should, in theory, pull of quite easily, the waistband is trapped beneath the lacings of the dress and refuses to budge. Sion wriggles his assistance, scooting his ass against the floor and trying to force the material forward and out while Nezumi’s fingers dig and scrape across his hips and thighs. When Nezumi finally succeeds, Sion is half-expecting some sort of celebratory gesture or lecture about not mixing wardrobes, but instead all he gets is a carnivorous flash of teeth as his pants are tossed unceremoniously over Nezumi’s shoulder. Sion laughs, “You’re not actually going to-”

“Oh, I _am_ going to, actually,” Nezumi assures him and presses the heel of his hand into Sion’s chest, shoving him back against the tiles. His other hand fists full of the ruffles and shoves them back in Sion’s face, “Take two.” He slides his knees backward and scissors them into Sion’s thighs, spreading them wider, and settling himself in between.

“Nez- _Oh_ …” Sion trails off as Nezumi dips forward and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth. One hand gropes reflexively forward and twists into the roots of Nezumi’s hair, fingers winding their way slowly through the coarse strands and coaxing him forward without much thought.

Nezumi pulls back and releases him with a soft _pop_. “This,” he murmurs with a disappointed frown, “Calls for a bit more emotion. Virility. _Something._ ”

“W-wha-” Sion takes a deep breath and is once again struck by just how _restrictive_ the bodice of this blasted dress is. It takes him a good deal of effort to fill his lungs as full as he wants and ends up croaking most of his breath out in a gurgled sigh.

“Better,” Nezumi muses and licks a languid circle, “Bears an uncanny resemblance to a slowly dying goat, but better than silence, I suppose. Come on now,” he grips tightly around the base of Sion’s cock, “ _Emote_.”

“I- _ahhhAHH_ ,” Sion’s head kicks back against the wall as Nezumi swallows him once again. This reaction earns him a pleased hum in addition, which jolts up his spine and shoots through his shoulders. His fingers are back in Nezumi’s hair, twitching in time with his own shuddered breaths. Nezumi’s thumbs dig into the crease of his hips and _flex_ until the tips of their nails are digging into Sion’s flesh. “ _OW_ ,” Sion hisses and flexes his own fingers into Nezumi’s roots.

“Mowar ‘oise,” Nezumi demands, though his mouth is still stretched around Sion and his words are only almost intelligible. He dips his head lower again and swallows harshly and it’s all Sion can do to comply with a needy whine. Nezumi’s eyes sparkle at this – obviously satisfied for the moment – and he moves himself into a more steady rhythm.

Sion feels like…well, he feels like a bit of an idiot trying to enjoy this and come up with interesting noises to make to keep Nezumi satisfied with his performance at the same time. He’s too distracted by Nezumi’s tongue to really focus on what noises are coming out of him and still too self-conscious to yelp all of the obscene phrases and grunts that inevitably come to mind in this position. He settles instead for a steady stream of keening moans that require neither too much forethought to produce nor make him blush too wildly on their expulsion. He bites his lips together between breaths and lets his eyes roll back, thoroughly lost in the push and drag of Nezumi’s tongue-

He blinks a few times before he realizes Nezumi has stopped and is staring up at him with a quirked eyebrow and taunting expression. He bites his bottom lip and furrows his brow, wondering just what’s got Nezumi’s hackles up this time and very much wishing he would just get over it, get _on_ with it and stop making a production out of this. “Hmm?” he breathes.

“You’re obviously going to need close-quarters coaching,” Nezumi clucks his tongue, “Since you can’t follow direction worth a damn.”

“This isn’t close-quarters?”

“Not close enough, apparently,” Nezumi laughs and crawls forward to half-seat himself in Sion’s lap, thighs crossing over and knees knocking awkwardly against Sion’s sides, but not scooting close enough to fully straddle him. He hooks his fingers into the corners of Sion’s mouth and drags them upward, “Happy.” He yanks them back down and pulls out on Sion’s lower lip, “Sad. You see?” Sion rolls his eyes and nods. “Good, then,” Nezumi continues and wraps a hand around Sion’s cock once again, “Now try for sexy.” He gives a couple of good strokes and Sion’s face contorts into something he is sure is miles away from sexy. Nezumi seems to disagree, however, and leans in with a lecherous grin to whisper in his ear, “That was _obscene_.”

“Shut up,” Sion groans and wraps a hand around the back side of Nezumi’s neck to pull their mouths together. He’s feeling particularly ravenous at the moment – all hot and bothered and constrained and _denied_ as he is – and he probably throws a bit more teeth and tongue into the kiss than he intends, but he’s kind of _fine_ with that as Nezumi reciprocates with a happy hum at the back of his throat and winds the fingers of his free hand into Sion’s hair. Nezumi tastes like minty wax (or maybe that’s him…one look in the mirror had shown him that there’s enough waxy lipstick coating his lips to make a small candle), which is surprisingly pleasant, especially as he hasn’t been given the occasion to brush his teeth yet. Mostly though, Nezumi tastes like _more_ , and Sion takes the opportunity to mumble as much against his lips.

“I can’t understand you,” Nezumi mumbles back, dragging his teeth down the fleshy half of Sion’s lower lip and nibbling at the end, “You’re what?”

“More _please_ ,” Sion tries again, not certain now whether he’s meant to be begging or demanding or something else entirely. It probably doesn’t even matter because Nezumi is as likely as not to change his mind on the spot (whether to keep himself entertained or just to watch Sion squirm has never been entirely clear, but Sion has always suspected a combination thereof). And predictably, he does.

“Enunciate,” he insists, and shifts his attentions to the curve of Sion’s jaw, running his tongue and lips over the lines there all the way up to his earlobe, “Make me believe it.”

“I-” Sion coughs as Nezumi moves down his neck, suckling and biting and generally making it very difficult to concentrate on what he’s about to say, “I-” _nip_ , “ _Goddamn it, Nezumi_ ,” he hisses finally, “If you don’t stop teasing me I am going to haul off and toss you over the edge of the bathtub, pull that rats’ nest out of your hair, and fuck you senseless.”

This is met with, well, _mostly_ laughter, but also a continued dose of teasing at his earlobe. “Is that really the best you’ve got?” Nezumi chuckles and pulls back to cradle Sion’s face in his hands and pat his hair like he feels _sorry_ for him of all things (which is patently ridiculous as Nezumi is looking just as disheveled as he is – possibly more so with red smears around his lips and his hair in complete disarray).

“I thought it was pretty good,” Sion mumbles and shoots him a mock pout.

“Well it certainly was _appealing_ ,” Nezumi agrees with a considering nod of his head, “Not really an advisable way to seduce your director, however.”

“You would know.”

“I might,” Nezumi grins and leans in to kiss him again. Sion’s eyelids flutter closed as Nezumi’s tongue meets his own again and a small, pleased noise rattles through his throat. “That was pretty good,” Nezumi mumbles, “But I’m guessing you have no idea what you just did.”

Sions sighs and tips his head backward again because he _doesn’t_ know – he doesn’t have a goddamned clue. But he’s too invested, too well dressed, and most of all too _aroused_ to keep flailing like this without end. He plasters a coy smile across his face – the same that he sees Nezumi use on the street vendors day after day – and bats his eyelashes. “You’re right, of course,” he says sweetly, “But if you’d maybe do that again, I could pay closer attention this time.” He adds a wink on the end, to accent his…he isn’t quite sure, but he adds it just the same.

Nezumi recoils, “That was just creepy.”

Sion flushes even redder (as if this were humanly possible), “The direction was awful,” he manages through clenched teeth, “I have no idea what my motivation is supposed to be and to be quite honest I can’t read my co-star worth a damn. He’s arrogant, moody, and prone to ad-libbing without rhyme or reason-”

“Sounds like you read him pretty well-”

“And I just don’t think I can work under these circumstances.” Sion purses his lips and huffs, sending the wisp of hair that’s fallen into his eyes floating back up to his brows.

“Well at least you’re taking the right attitude toward all of this,” Nezumi half-says, half-pouts, “I have to admit that was pretty good. Where’d you pull that from?”

“I’ve _been_ to your rehearsals.”

“Then you know my pain all too well,” Nezumi says with a knowing nod, “Terrible bunch of drama queens. I don’t know how I cope.”

“Actually-”

“Shhh,” Nezumi’s lips are hovering over his again, breath buzzing out between them as he moves closer, “There’s no more dialogue in this scene.”

“You wanted noise,” Sion points out, perfectly innocently.

“Noise, yes; smart-ass commentary, no,” Nezumi counters and closes his lips over Sion’s. Sion can’t help but feel a small swelling of pride at this – even if he hasn’t managed to gain the upper hand over all, he’s effectively put an end to _this_ particular power struggle. And gotten exactly what he wants, which is a feat in and of itself most days. _Exactly_ what he wants – he shudders as Nezumi’s hand wraps around him once again and _tugs_ , slow and sweet and just _so_. His head suddenly feels a thousand times heavier, though it’s such a small price to pay to have Nezumi pressed against him like this, mouths entangled and hungry, that he doesn’t fully realize that Nezumi is balancing the whole of his weight against his face while his hands fumble with something unseen. It dawns on him a few moments later still just _what_ he’s been fumbling with as it suddenly and wetly slides over the head of his cock. The instant shock of cold is warmed a second later as Nezumi’s hand follows, coating him generously while still managing to be a horrible _tease_.

“Shouldn’t we-” Sion mumbles between kisses and tries in vain to struggle upward, “Bed?”

“I think here’s good,” Nezumi bites his chin in reply.

“But-”

“It’s a bit late for stage fright,” Nezumi says with a great deal of finality and slides himself forward, knees dredging up the frilly skirt and pressing it in a matted knot against Sion’s sides, “Much too late.” He emphasizes this with a wicked grin as he lifts his hips and, snaking a hand around to use as a guide, slowly impales himself until he is seated fully in Sion’s lap once again.

Sion gulps for air as Nezumi surrounds him, finds he can’t – forgets _how_ – and slumps against the wall in a shuddering, gasping mess as his lungs work overtime to make up the difference with quick, shallow pants. Nezumi’s hand is back at his cheek, a concerned look on his face, as he sits there being otherwise too calm, too _collected_ for Sion to fully appreciate that he’s _not_ (for once) mocking him. “It’s too tight?” he reaches behind Sion to tug at the lacing, “Let me-”

“No, it’s fine,” Sion insists, suddenly remembering to breathe _up_ and managing to pull the first satisfying breath of the past minute into his chest. “It’s just… _different_.”

“Mmm,” Nezumi agrees with a half-frown, “If you’re going to pass out-”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“That’s really what I’d rather avoid,” Nezumi says seriously, before allowing his face to melt into a grin, “You’re just going to have to keep making noise,” he rocks forward – ever so slightly – and nips mock irritably at Sion’s nose when all he receives is a gurgled _“Oh”_ in response, “Far more noise than that.” Sion tries desperately to comply as Nezumi slides and writhes against him, succeeding mostly in twittering out more embarrassingly gargled _mmphs_ and _ahgads_. Nezumi growls half-heartedly and nips at his lips, “ _Project_.”

Sion _projects_ a loud and disgruntled sigh directly into Nezumi’s ear because, goddamn it, he’d thought they were done with this game. His fingers claw their way down Nezumi’s back, dragging and pulling the already haphazardly draped robe into even further disarray and hoping the muted sensation of his nails feels just as maddening as the thrumming of fingers that aren’t _quite_ there against his sides. He has to assume it’s not, though, as this only produces a sharp hiss and faster movement. Air rushes in and out, filling his lungs but never quite catching on his vocal cords in a way that feels satisfying, either to himself or to Nezumi, who scrapes his teeth wickedly down the curve of Sion’s throat, practically _willing_ the sound out of it, to no avail.

He grits his teeth and fishes through the skit netting to wrap a hand around Nezumi’s cock, which he is completely unsurprised to find hard and hot and slick with inattention. Nezumi moans, mocking and goading Sion on, but he’s completely stifled – pinned against the floor and unable to even wriggle for all the frills and _tight_ across his abdomen, _tight_ across his chest, _scraping numbness_ across his forearm, and now the burning throb searing up his thighs that insists he is going to come, hard and fast and _right fucking now_ -

It’s amazing, he thinks, how quickly his throat muscles loosen to allow the same shuddering mass of ecstasy that strains his groin and squeezes his shoulders tight to escape as the single most obnoxious sound he’s ever heard himself make. It’s somewhere between a whine and a bark, and either way it’s verging on things he’s only heard in nature documentaries and wouldn’t have believed could be produced by a human - much less himself - until this very moment.

Or rather, that’s what he thinks when he once again has the capacity. For a moment, it’s all he can to do stare droopily at the disheveled wreck in his lap – make up smeared and running and robe fallen completely from his shoulders – still rocking slowly against him and positively _smirking_ with every stuttered aftershock that rolls up Sion’s spine. It’s taunting, it’s teasing (it's downright _cruel_ if he’s being honest), and it’s entirely designed to provoke a final few strokes of Sion’s wrist, which he hazily delivers and tries to muster the presence of mind to focus on as Nezumi tumbles into oblivion after him.

It’s a few moments later before Sion realizes that Nezumi is mumbling something completely unintelligible against his neck. He tries to muster up the wherewithal to care too much, fails, but still manages a lazy “Hmm?” in the end.

“Projection scared the neighbors,” Nezumi mumbles again, though louder this time.

“You’re horrible.”

“Think of the children,” Nezumi snorts and forces himself to sit back up (with great apparent effort and all requisite groaning). He stares at Sion for a long moment, an eyebrow cocking lazily over heavy eyelids, and drags a finger beneath Sion’s well-painted eyes, “You’re a mess.” He holds the finger pad out for inspection – black coats most of its surface, though there is a definite sheen of sparkly pink shimmering over the splotch.

“So are you,” Sion laughs and reaches forward to mirror the movement against Nezumi’s smeared lipstick. He’s slightly dismayed when he only succeeds in spreading the stuff around further. “Nezumi…”

“It just needs a bit of scrubbing,” Nezumi assures him with a wink and reaches up over Sion’s head to rummage around in the cabinet once again.

Sion wipes furiously at his own mouth – he should have _known_ what a nightmare this stuff was going to be to get off – and nearly bites his own fingers off as a rush of hot water tumbles down over his head. He blinks a few times as it dawns on him that, in the course of the morning’s events, he’s allowed himself to be maneuvered directly under the shower nozzle. He ought to be angry, or at the very least slightly peeved that he’s now sopping wet in addition to stuffed and mounted, but he’s finding it hard to dredge up the energy. Besides which, there is one hand expertly winding around his back to tug at the lacings of his soaking prison and another dabbing a wet washrag across his face and it really feels quite _nice_ , despite all the perfectly sensible reasons that it, well… _shouldn’t_.

“That was quite the performance, your majesty,” Nezumi hums and drops the rag to lie over Sion’s face.

“Did I get the part?” Sion mumbles against the cloth and reaches up to let the water drip down between his fingers and across the palms of his hands.

“You made call-back, at any rate,” Nezumi laughs and struggles to his feet, “Make sure you scrub…I’d hate for you to lose your day job.”

“Shut up-”

 _”Just in case,”_ Nezumi adds sternly, “The neighbors are a finicky audience, you know.”

“Oh god, _stop-_ ”

Sion hears the door open through his washcloth cocoon. “I’ll make some breakfast,” Nezumi calls from the hallway, “Just be sure to hang that dress up when you’re done.” There’s a long pause, then the sound of footsteps tracking back down the hallway, “Oh, and Sion?”

“Hmm?”

“Your face isn’t the only thing covered in lipstick.”

Sion turns his face into the falling water and drowns out anything further. Breakfast had better be fantastic.


End file.
